A poem just an attempt

Twenty-Six

Twenty-six is undeterred by being.

Whatever is will soon be merely was.

Each moment is a fluid shaped by will,

Neither moving on nor standing still,

Tide against the rock of what one does,

Yielding to the substance of one's seeing.
Such speculation one might well find freeing,

Images of time that hope instill,

Xeroxes of self as uncaused cause.